CHAPTER VI.DISCOMFITED.
W
henBelassis heard that his troublesome nephew had gone to Germany, and would probably be absent for a week, he seemed to breathe more freely again; for since the evening on which he had heard of the sudden visit to Whitbury, he had felt like one who lives with a drawn sword suspended over his head. Not even his conversation in the field on the following day had restored his shaken equanimity, for he was not at all assured that his statement had been believed, although it had not been contradicted. Belassis and his wife had both ample food for meditation, and were glad of the respite which this visit to Germany had afforded.
‘Now is our time, if ever, to search for the will,’ said Mrs. Belassis, the same evening thatLewis had told them of the sudden journey. ‘Why did we not have this clue before, when Ladywell stood empty? We could have done anything then. Now it may be difficult, and even dangerous.’
Belassis shook his head helplessly, and did not know what to suggest.
‘You never do,’ returned his wife coolly. ‘I can’t think what has come to you, Alfred; you used to have plenty of assurance, and meddled with matters you had much better have let alone, and now that a real emergency has come, you are no better than a girl. I’d be ashamed to be such a poor creature.’
Belassis did not resent this language, for he felt himself a poor creature enough at that moment. What his wife said of him was only too true. Some change had come over him for which he could not account, and his old cunning and craft seemed to have entirely deserted him.
As a fact, it was circumstances that had changed, not his nature. Belassis was a man who could go on swimmingly whilst things were prosperous, whilst the game was in his own hands, and success within his grasp, buthe could not stand up against misfortune; and when the tide of his luck seemed turning, he could only look on dismayed, feeling hopelessly unequal to the task of stemming the torrent.
His father had been a clever man, and had put his son in the way of becoming wealthy and respected. He left him a handsome property and a flourishing business, and had secured for him a well-dowered wife. Alfred Belassis therefore had made an excellent start in life, for he was trusted and respected for his father’s sake, and admitted into society for his wife’s.
So long as he had only had to deal with men like Philip Debenham senior, all had gone well. He had fleeced him with impunity, speculated with his money, and had contrived that all gain should be his own, and all loss his client’s. He had even gone so far as to speculate with Maud’s trust-money, and the speculation had been a lamentable failure.
Belassis’ own fortune, too, had suffered through his folly and ill luck; and since this new relative had turned up, with his cool inquiring words and amused incredulous looks, the ground seemed actually slipping awayfrom under his feet, and he could only lean upon his wife for support. The idea that she might now learn the treacherous part he had played towards her, was an added terror; and Belassis sometimes felt disposed to make a bolt for it, and get away altogether from his present surroundings, but his natural weakness and irresolution deterred him.
‘I’m afraid I am but a poor creature, my dear,’ he answered, with a sickly smile. ‘I think I cannot be very well just now.’
‘Pooh, nonsense! You’re well enough, only cowardly. Now look here. I’m nearly sure that Philip Debenham has never seen those words about the later will. For one thing, I don’t believe the paper had ever been unfolded before I opened it out; and for another, if Philip had known of it, the search would have been instituted at once; and if the will had been in existence at all, it would have been found. I’ve never heard that any search has been made; and besides, although Philip did ask you something about a later will, it seemed to be pure guess-work, for he imagined that it had fallen into your hands.’
‘I wish to heaven it had!’ groaned Belassis.‘If there is another will, and if it is found, we shall be ruined.’
‘Just so; and as we both believe that another will was made, we must take care that it falls into no hands but our own.’
Belassis groaned again.
‘You really think he made another?’
‘You know I always did think he intended making another, when you told me how perfectly ready he was to agree to your suggestion, and to make that condition, and write that letter. You had plenty of bluster in those days, Alfred, and Philip feared you; and you could always get the whip-hand of him by threatening to throw up his business affairs, which he was fool enough to think were prospering in your hands. He dared not oppose you; but I never trusted him, when I knew how easily he had granted that monstrous condition, and that without any love for us or for Lewis. If he had argued and disputed and then given way, I might have believed better in it; as it was, I never had much faith.’
‘Nor I very much; but I never could find out anything suspicious, and I watched himas a cat does a mouse. Nothing in his papers was found to upset the will in my possession.’
‘Well, there can be no doubt now that the will was made; the only question is, was it accidentally or purposely destroyed? or is it still in the library at Ladywell, hidden away? As Philip Debenham had the acuteness to put it somewhere out of your reach, it is hardly likely he would ever be weak enough to make away with it himself. I believe it is still there.’
Belassis wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
‘Old Maynard could not find it.’
‘Old Maynard would not look with the energy that we shall. If it is there, find it wemust.’
‘How?’ asked Belassis vaguely.
‘That remains to be proved. After what has gone before, it may be difficult; but I will make an attempt whilst Philip is away; if that fails, we must consider further.’
Mrs. Belassis did make the attempt without further loss of time. That same afternoon she went over to Ladywell, in order to consult some books of reference in the library.
She had done the same thing sometimes in the former owner’s time, as a means of gaining occasional access to her gruff old uncle. In this lay her chief hope, that her visit might pass unremarked, and that she might be allowed to prosecute her search unsuspected.
The library at Ladywell was of great size, and contained a really large collection of books. If the will was concealed in one of these, it might be a weary while before it saw the light. Still Mrs. Belassis was not daunted by that thought. If it was there, she would find it, if only opportunity were granted her. The strong probability that, even if in existence, it might lie undiscovered for generations, was but a poor consolation to Mrs. Belassis. So long as she believed it to be there, she could enjoy no rest. Any day some chance might reveal its hiding-place, and then ruin stared them in the face. It must be found by herself or her husband, and destroyed as soon as found, and then perhaps they would know peace again.
So Mrs. Belassis went openly to Ladywell, and was shown by her own request into the library. Miss Debenham and Mrs. Lorraine,she was told, were to start in ten minutes’ time for a garden-party.
This was good news. Mrs. Belassis took down a few books, and sat down to study them, to give colour to her story in case either lady should come in. It was not many minutes before Maud entered. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled a little as she addressed Mrs. Belassis.
‘Oh, Aunt Celia, I heard you were here. I am afraid you will be disappointed if you stay. I don’t think Phil keeps any of his private papers in the library. Would you not like to go up to his bedroom? I do not know, of course, as I am not specially interested in his correspondence; but I dare say you would find there a good deal you might like to see.’
Mrs. Belassis looked coldly contemptuous. Inwardly she was raging.
‘Such a remark hardly deserves an answer, Maud.’
‘What a good thing, for I am afraid you would not find it very easy to make one,’ retorted Maud quickly. ‘Well, I must go now. I hope you will find the books interesting, but I am afraid you will be disappointed.’
Maud swept away, and Mrs. Belassis heaved a sigh of relief. She believed that she would not now be further molested; and when she heard the carriage roll away, a smile of triumph crossed her face. The triumph was short-lived. The door opened softly and admitted Mrs. Lorraine.
‘Good-afternoon, Celia. I have brought my work in here this afternoon. It is the coolest room in the house, I think.’
She sat down beside the window, and drew out her work, talking quietly and gently the while.
‘I thought you were going to a party with Maud,’ said Mrs. Belassis sharply.
‘I have changed my mind. It is too hot to enjoy such things.’
‘You have never let Maud go alone! She is not to be trusted by herself anywhere.’
‘I have the greatest confidence in dear Maud. But she will not go alone. We were to call for Mrs. Nelson. Maud will go now under her care.’
Mrs. Belassis turned over her books with the haste of deeply-seated annoyance. Then she turned irritably upon the gentle sister,whom she had been accustomed for so many years to tyrannize over successfully.
‘Well, I wish you would go away now, Olive. I can’t bear company when I want to study.’
‘I will not disturb you,’ answered Mrs. Lorraine, settling herself quietly back in her chair.
Mrs. Belassis looked rather as she might have done had a dove turned upon her.
‘You decline to leave me, do you, Olive?’
‘Yes, Celia, I do. You are our guest whilst you are in this house—Maud’s and mine. It is not usual to leave guests alone.’
Mrs. Lorraine spoke timidly yet firmly. She had not lived two months under Tor’s protection for nothing. She was not ashamed or afraid to assume that position which he had always accorded to her. But Mrs. Belassis’ wrath knew no bounds, and to Olive she allowed it to burst out.
‘In point of fact, you have remained behind in order to spy upon my doings?’
‘And whose fault is it if I have?’ asked Mrs. Lorraine, not without dignity. ‘What should we have seen had anyone spied uponyou whilst you were shut up in Philip’s room the other day? It is you who force us to watch you, Celia. Philip is away, and we are responsible for what goes on in his absence.’
Mrs. Belassis sneered.
‘And so I cannot be allowed to make a few notes from these books without supervision? Even old Uncle Maynard, the misanthrope, was less cautious than you seem to be. Are you afraid that I shall walk off with some rare book? I cannot think what has come over you, Olive.’
‘I could say the same of you, Celia. Why should you object to my presence here, unless——’
But Mrs. Belassis rose with dignity.
‘I shall not remain here to be insulted. Some day, Olive Lorraine, you shall be made to rue the day when you played the spy upon me, and made me Philip Debenham’s declared enemy.’
‘I think enmity is better declared than secret, Celia,’ answered Mrs. Lorraine tranquilly. ‘You have always been Philip’s enemy, and you know it.’
‘And now you shall learn what my enmityis like, and how it can affect your idolized nephew. Tell him to look to himself!’
And Mrs. Belassis, with a vindictive scowl at her daring sister, turned and quitted the room and the house, feeling for once that she was foiled.
Lewis had gone to the garden-party whither Maud was bound; and he had gone thither with the fixed intention of having some serious conversation with her. This intention was partly the result of his own impatience, and his desire to come to some more definite understanding with his pretty cousin, and partly on account of a conversation he had had with his father upon the previous evening, in which Belassis had urged upon him with much force and feeling, the absolute necessity there was for him to marry Maud; and had begged that he would not lose the opportunity afforded by the brother’s absence. He felt certain that Maud would be more easily influenced in Philip’s absence than if he were upon the spot; and he implored his son with feverish energy to lose no time, and to risk everything rather than let his cousin throw him over.
His father’s excited manner left an uneasyimpression upon Lewis’s mind. He could not see why it should be a life-and-death matter to anyone but himself, and yet there was no mistaking the eagerness of the elder Belassis. Lewis knew enough of his father to make him distrustful of such earnestness.
At the same time he was willing enough to talk to Maud, for he feared now that she was slipping from him, and he was determined not to yield her up without a struggle.
Poor Lewis! He felt sometimes as though he had deserved a better parentage and better prospects. He had been brought up in gentlemanly idleness, to satisfy his father’s idea of grandeur and his mother’s family pride, and was always considered a very lucky fellow, who would marry an heiress, or at least inherit her fortune, and succeed at length to the broad acres attached to Thornton House. But of late an uncomfortable idea had suggested itself to Lewis, that things were not quite so satisfactory as he had believed. His father’s manner often perplexed him. His mother looked gloomy and disturbed, and he could not but fancy that some danger, unknown to him, threatened them at this time.
So it was in a rather dejected frame of mind that Lewis met Maud that afternoon, and dejection is not the most favourable of moods in which to commence a love-passage.
Maud was looking unusually bright and animated, and was always the centre of an admiring circle. It was some time before Lewis could gain possession of her, even for a few minutes, and not until quite the close of the afternoon that he succeeded in leading her away to a more secluded spot, beyond the reach of curious eyes or sharp ears.
‘Why, Lewis, where are you taking me to?’ asked Maud, pausing at length and looking back. ‘See what a long way we have wandered!’
‘Yes, and see how nice and cool it is here!’ returned Lewis. ‘I’m sure you like it better than all that heat and glare. There’s such a pretty little grotto down here by the water. You’d better come and see it, now you are so near.’
‘Oh yes, I’ll come. It’s a pretty sort of place. It’s been a nice party, hasn’t it, Lewis?’
‘I hate tennis-parties!’ answered he, with needless emphasis.
‘Then why did you come?’
‘I came to see you.’
‘To see me!’ Maud looked at him and laughed. ‘That’s good! As if you didn’t see me nearly every day of your life!’
‘I never seem to see you alone now for a moment,’ returned Lewis discontentedly. ‘You always have a crowd of people round you, or that everlasting Philip. I never can get in a word edgeways!’
Maud looked at him, and patted his arm gently with her delicately gloved hand.
‘Now don’t be silly and tiresome, Lewis. You know you haven’t any real grievance. Is this the grotto? It is very pretty. Shall we sit down here a little while? Now you can talk to your heart’s content.’
They did sit down, but at the same time Lewis did not seem to have very much to say. He looked at Maud, and looked at the trickling water, and held his peace. He had got the chance he wanted, but he did not seem to know how to use it.
Maud, too, was silent—and if not embarrassed,at any rate less ready than usual to chatter to him. She sat with a look of gravity stamped upon her face, which deepened as moments went by.
‘Well, Maud,’ said Lewis, looking up at length, ‘I suppose we are both of us thinking about the same subject.’
‘I dare say we are,’ answered the girl slowly. ‘I suppose it is time we came to some understanding, Lewis.’
It was not a very promising opening, and Lewis was aware of it.
‘Well, Maud,’ he said with a sigh, ‘you know I have loved you all these years, and wanted to make you my wife. The question is, will you have me?’
Had Maud’s feelings been in any way likely to warm towards him, such a beginning would have been fatal; but as it was, it did not affect the point at issue, because her mind was already made up.
‘No, Lewis; I’m afraid I can’t, after all,’ she said slowly. ‘I do like you, and we’ve been very good friends always, and I’ve tried to make up my mind to it. I’ve looked at the matter every way, and considered everything,and I’m sure it would be best for us not to marry.’
Lewis sat looking gloomily at his boots.
‘Aren’t you fond of me, Maud, after the way we have held together all these years?’
‘Yes, Lewis, I am fond of you, and you are fond of me; but I don’t love you, and what’s more, you don’t love me—not in the way you think you do. I am sure we should not be really happy together, so you had better take the money, and leave me alone.’
‘I don’t want the money—I want you. It’s a beastly shame the money ever was left like that.’
‘Yes, so it is,’ assented Maud readily; ‘but I can almost be glad that you will have it, Lewis, for you will find it very convenient. And—and I hope you won’t go right away, or do anything rash; because I’m very fond of you, Lewis, though I can’t marry you.’
Maud spoke with sudden affection, and Lewis took the little hand she held out and kissed it.
‘Why can’t you marry me, Maud? Once you thought you could. Do you care for any other fellow?’
‘No, no, Lewis; indeed it isn’t that.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘It is partly because I don’t really care enough for you, Lewis; and I don’t think you would like to find that out after we were married; and partly—partly because I do so detest Uncle Belassis and Aunt Celia. I could not—oh, Icouldnot take their name, and make myself more of a relation than I am.’
‘Rather hard on me,’ remarked Lewis.
‘Very hard on you,’ assented Maud, with emphasis. ‘I know it is, Lewis, and I feel almost mean to serve you so. Perhaps if I were in love with you, I could put up with even that; but I’m not, and I really can’t do it, more especially as I believe that clause in the will was all your father’s doing—just a plot to keep the money in his own family. I think it’s very hard on you to have such a father.’
Lewis shook his head gravely.
‘I’m afraid sometimes he’ll get into trouble one of these days. I believe he’s been speculating awfully, and that plays old Harry with the money. I dare say I shan’t be much of a catch after all, Maud. Perhaps you’re wise to chuck me over.’
‘Now don’t be disagreeable, Lewis,’ said Maud. ‘You know if I wanted money, I should get it by marrying you. I’m glad you will have something substantial, even if Uncle Belassis does come to grief. I have thought him looking very anxious and frightened of late. Do you think anything has happened?’
‘I don’t know. I fancy he has something on his mind, and the mater too. They will be in an awful way when I tell them your decision. I suppose you can’t change it, Maud?’
‘I’m afraid not, Lewis; I would if I could. But don’t you tell them my decision. I will do that myself on my birthday. I will not give my final answer yet; I reserve to myself the right of changing my mind. Don’t build on hope, but don’t tell them anything. I should like to tell them myself.’
Lewis accepted this suggestion with some relief. He was cast down in spirit, and had no wish to face a blustering or craven father. He had taken his rejection more quietly than he had planned, because he saw at once from Maud’s manner that his case was hopeless. For some reasons he felt this final decisionalmost a relief. Maud had not been far wrong in saying that his love was not of quite the right kind; and he was conscious that his position as Maud’s husband would be anything but a pleasant one, did his father prove—as he almost feared he would prove—to have committed follies, and even worse, which would bring his name into unenviable notoriety. Lewis had begun to have strong suspicions as to his father’s integrity, and these painful doubts had been doubly painful when he had thought of Maud. He loved her well enough to wish to spare her all needless pain—well enough to be almost disinterested. But this is hardly the feeling of the ardent lover, and Maud was not wrong in saying to herself that night, that the interview was well over, and Lewis’s heart was not broken.